Melancholia
by Jayda Morgana
Summary: "He knew very well that he might not have made it past thirty if John hadn't been there." One-shot, rated T for possible triggers.


_**Trigger Warning:**** Thoughts of self-harm/suicide. Also might be triggering for those of you that experience depression.**_

* * *

The first time Sherlock fell victim to a black mood was a day like any other. He was thirteen, just home from a school day that had, in fact, not been as bad as usual. That being said, there really wasn't any reason for the sudden onslaught of sadness.

The depression literally _consumed_ him. He spent the entire weekend in bed, until Mummy noticed and told him he ought to get up. Sherlock, despite wanting to mope around, dragged himself out of his room and took a cold shower, still utterly overtaken by negative emotion.

The mood made him question himself, his very being. He spent a lot of time looking in the mirror, scowling at his lanky limbs and horsey face, wondering if people thought him freakish because of his appearance. Then again, maybe it was because he was something of a know-it-all. Not that he tried to be, of course; everyone was just so dull and _ordinary_.

Going back to school the next Monday was the hardest, as Sherlock wasn't over his mood yet. He didn't feel the need to put on a false smile (he never did, anyway), but he knew he looked worn and that his classmates were talking.

Sherlock's first black mood was by no means extraordinary - many teenagers suffered the same sort of thing, after all. Only difference was, they kept recurring, and sometimes they were much worse than others.

* * *

Sherlock dealt with highs and lows throughout the rest of his schooling, until he reached University. Eventually he couldn't handle it anymore - he was so lonely and sad and isolated that he sought out the worst of crowds. He met a few blokes who dealt drugs and became a heavy user. It was, after all, the only way he felt he could cope.

At one point, Sherlock got entangled with a man named Daniel Morgan. He was rich, popular, and intelligent to boot - and if all that weren't enough, he had a steady supply of drugs that he was willing to sell for cheap. Above all things, however, was that he took an interest in Sherlock.

"C'mon Sherl, I'm begging you," Daniel said one day, practically on his knees. "I'm going mad, I swear. I can't stop thinking about you."

Sherlock, on the cusp of another of his bad days, rolled his eyes skyward.

"Please," he said, his lip curling in a disdainful scowl.

"You're a virgin, right?" Daniel said, his voice hushed. "C'mon, Sherlock, I could show you some things. Give you experience, if anything. But, God, if you don't let me fuck you, I swear …"

_If you don't let me _fuck_ you._ There was something so menacing and impersonal about the way he said it; Sherlock actually felt himself stiffen. He considered his options: if he had sex with Daniel, it was almost guaranteed to be a no-strings-attached sort of thing. In the grand scope of it all, what could go wrong?

"Fine," Sherlock said, his scowl deepening.

"Excellent," Daniel said, grinning. "I'm glad you've come to your senses, Sherlock."

Sherlock brushed aside the comment, his thoughts too preoccupied to care much about such a dumb bloke. He met Daniel after class at his flat and stood tentatively in the doorway, waiting for a command.

"Come in, you arse," Daniel said, coming out of the back room. He was completely nude. "Jesus."

Sherlock sat down awkwardly on the bed. Before he knew what was happening, Daniel was peeling his clothing away, piece by piece. He wasn't rough, but he wasn't exactly gentle, either. Sherlock sucked in a breath.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, now," Daniel advised. "I do have experience, you know."

Sherlock leaned back on the bed, far too aware of how thin and fragile he looked with this hulk of meat straddling him. Daniel muttered something obscene and leaned forward, prepared to get what he desired.

It wasn't what Sherlock had been expecting - not that he'd been expecting sex with Daniel to be pleasurable. It was rough, coarse, and invasive - and above all, it left Sherlock feeling weak and sad. He slumped back onto the bed, frowning deeply, feeling oddly apathetic to the entire thing.

"What the hell, mate?" Daniel asked, giving Sherlock a playful slap on the rear. "You're no fun, are you?"

"I need to go," Sherlock murmured, snatching up his clothing. Within moments he'd left the room and was out in the pouring rain, feeling more pathetic than ever.

Things didn't change much, over the course of his University days. He soon found out he was desirable, but not for the right reasons. Not only was he a complete freak, he was every Uni bloke's personal plaything.

The black moods resurfaced, stronger than ever.

* * *

When Sherlock was twenty-five, he took up drugs again. The left him in a state of pleasant delirium, but ultimately he crashed and burned, feeling worse than ever. All throughout, the dismal states of mind prevailed.

One August morning, when Sherlock was nearing thirty - not long after he'd met Lestrade - he felt down, even more so than ever before. It didn't matter that now he had the cases; it didn't matter that he now had some form of escape. There was no escaping the darkness, not really.

He wanted to hurt himself, badly.

Sherlock planted himself in front of the bathroom mirror, for perhaps the hundredth time in just as many minutes. He hated - absolutely despised - how he looked. He was a freakish, long-faced user whom no one seemed to care about. He was constantly putting up barriers, defending himself. He didn't have a single friend in the world, and he had an undiagnosed case of severe depression.

Sherlock noticed his razor, sitting along the side of the bath, and thought of the possibilities. He could slit his wrists, right there in the tub, and no one would notice or care. No one would miss his snarky humor or his deductive abilities. No one would miss him, period.

On that very morning, all alone in his bathroom, Sherlock Holmes considered suicide. He wasn't entirely sure what made him ultimately decide against it, but in retrospect he was glad he did.

… Because just two weeks later he was introduced to John Watson.

* * *

Sherlock didn't tell John about his depression for a year, at least. It wasn't until they'd settled into a close friendship that Sherlock felt comfortable admitting anything.

Then again, it wasn't so much that Sherlock had done any telling - it was more the fact that John had discovered a bottle of antidepressants in the medicine cabinet and had demanded to know if Sherlock was using again.

"Painkillers, Sherlock?" John had said, sounding furious. "_Really?_"

Sherlock decided, right then and there, to confess.

"I take them for the black moods, John."

"Sorry, what?"

"I get them occasionally. The meds help quite a bit; I don't know why I never tried them before. Sometimes they don't work, though. I-"

"Sherlock, are you telling me that you're depressed?"

"You could say that."

"Oh, God." John raised a hand to his forehead. "Jesus, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be." Deep down, though, Sherlock appreciated the doctor's concern. It was nice, in a way, knowing someone cared about him for once.

John was babbling. "I mean, I never would've guessed …"

"No, you weren't supposed to," Sherlock said, taking the bottle from him. "Though I am surprised you didn't deduce it earlier. I _am_ rather moody, you know. Side effects, and all that."

John cleared his throat. "Well, I'm glad I know, Sherlock. I want to be able to help you, just in case." He smiled weakly. "You know I'm here for you, right?"

"Don't get sentimental on me, John," Sherlock insisted. He had to admit, though … deep down, he appreciated John's concern. It meant the world to him, actually.

* * *

The meds weren't working today - they did that sometimes. Sherlock hadn't gotten out of bed, and it was already past three in the afternoon. He had a number of unanswered phone calls, emails, and clients begging for his assistance.

"Sherlock, you're phone's been ringing like crazy!" John shouted, bursting into his room. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the detective himself, curled up in a ball, staring at the writing-desk across the room.

"Sherlock-?"

"Hm."

"You okay?"

"Not … not so much," Sherlock admitted. "Black mood." He curled in even further on himself.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry." John coughed awkwardly. "Hey, is there anything I can do?"

Sherlock shook his head from under his pile of blankets. "No. But thank you for asking."

Without being asked to do so, John approached Sherlock's bedside and sat down beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Sherlock stiffened, but soon relaxed under the touch.

"I'm here, you know. If you ever need me."

"Thank you." Sherlock meant it, one hundred percent.

John didn't leave the room - or even change position - for over an hour; even then it was only to make dinner. He brought a plate of pasta up for Sherlock, along with a collection of DVDs.

"Hey, I know you're not feeling well, but how about a movie? I've got some crime dramas, just for you."

Sherlock smiled thinly. "So I can point out the detectives' errors when they go about solving murders?"

"Of course, Sherlock," John said with a laugh. "That's exactly right."

The doctor and the detective sat up together, watching a series of atrociously bad crime thrillers. Sherlock had to admit that, despite all things, he was feeling a bit better.

It really was nice, he decided, having John there for him like that. He knew very well that he might not have made it past thirty if John hadn't been there. He'd endured far too much sadness, far too many dark moods up till then. He knew he'd probably have to endure many more, but they would be irrefutably easier to get through with the army doctor by his side.

_This too shall pass,_ Sherlock thought, perhaps a bit sentimentally, as John rubbed his tired shoulders. He knew, deep down, that eventually he would start feeling better. Until then, he certainly wasn't averse to having John Watson looking out for him. Not averse to it at all.

* * *

_**A/N: This OS actually has a lot of personal weight for me; I find I relate to it on so many levels (unfortunately). May all those enduring similar circumstances be blessed with their own personal John Watson!**_


End file.
